


Drumming Lessons

by indevan



Series: Rock Band AU [1]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, Reluctant Mentorship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11583102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: Piccolo uses the time before a show to get alone time but inquisitive children have other ideas





	Drumming Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> it's probably bad form posting something from some random point in time for an AU i have nothing else posted for but i finished this and i like it so here it goes.

The hole-in-the-wall venue they’re booked at tonight has garbage acoustics but he wants to get used to them.  It’s a place available for rent.  Typical hipster bullshit with painted cinder block walls and a counter for them to sell alcohol at exorbitant prices.  Foldout tables line one wall ready to display merchandise: t-shirts, posters, copies of their EPs and albums--that sort of shit.  All of it probably cheaper than for what the venue is charging for a bottle of water.  He’s lucky they’re on first and can have their gear here.  He’s the only one onstage, the only one who does this before a show.  Most everyone else tunes onstage because it’s all they have time for.  More than once, he’s seen those rowdy assholes in Apetail start a fight in front of the crowd because their wunderkind guitarist is late or their keyboardist can’t turn off the bossanova setting on the keyboard.

He almost doesn’t hear the kid come up.  He isn’t playing much, just drumming out a beat to test the sound and adjust himself.  It’s more like a form of meditation.  Four bands on one tour that’s taking them all over the country is more than he can bear.  Even his own bandmates, who he mostly likes, have started to get on his nerves.  This is time he can take for himself.  He doesn’t showboat or solo, so playing alone, unaccompanied, still sounds weird to his sensitive ears.  He ends his little impromptu jam session and frowns.  The sound echoes weirdly in here.  The low ceiling and thick walls almost swallow the sound.  It shouldn’t matter for the actual show, but it bugs him now.

“Don’t stop, please.”

The voice is quiet and polite and it’s when he realizes he isn’t alone.  He looks and a small child is staring at him with inquisitive, dark eyes.  He knows him, vaguely.  It’s Kakarrot’s kid.  Why anyone let that man be a father is beyond him.  So far in the time Piccolo’s been acquainted with him, he’s been electrocuted, punched _through the guitar_ by his own bandmate, and urinated in a trashcan in a room full of people.  The fact that he’s responsible for someone else’s well being makes him shudder.

“You liked that?”

Piccolo has no idea how to talk to kids.  He wonders if he sounds too gruff.  It doesn’t seem to deter him because he clamors up on the stage and plops down next to his drumkit.

“Yeah.” He furrows his brow. “Can you show me?”

“Uh...no.”

That’s probably way too harsh to just outright say.  The kid’s with Apetail, though--technically.  He can ask _their_ drummer for help, especially since he’s related to him or whatever.

“You hold the sticks different.” He pauses and then corrects himself with, “Differently.”

The kid’s smart, Piccolo allows.  He has no idea how old he is but it can’t be more than five.  He also has noticed how he plays.

“What do you mean?” He’ll play along, see if the kid _really_ noticed.

He gets to his feet and draws closer to the kit.

“Uncle Raditz holds them like this.” He holds out two, loose fists and mimes playing drums. “You do it different _ly.”_

He switches how his hands are and, again, Piccolo’s impressed that he picked up on it.

“I learned jazz drumming first,” he tells him. “It’s.  Old school.”

His eyes are wide with wonder and he can’t help but feel--warm?  He isn’t sure why the fact that a four-year-old kid thinking he’s cool elicits such a feeling, but it does.

“Will you show me?  Please?”

He sounds eager, but he wanted to be alone before the show.  Piccolo opens his mouth to tell him so, to say that he can go bother someone else, but what comes out is:

“Sure.  Come here.”

He comes around to where Piccolo’s sitting and bounces on his feet.  He rises and lets the kid sit on the padded stool.  Reluctantly, he hands him his sticks and lets him tap on the snares.  His feet have no hope of reaching the bass pedal so only the short, staccato beat of the snares echoes through the empty venue.  He isn’t bad for it being his first time.  He hits one stick once and the other twice to make a simple beat.  He even manages to get a little rhythm going.  The sticks are clumsy in his little hands, but he can’t help but feel a little bit impressed.

He’s concentrating a lot, his brow furrowed and his tongue sticking out just a little, and it’s--endearing.  He nods along, tapping his foot to the beat the kid is making, despite himself.  It isn’t until he stops does he realize that the two of them are no longer alone.

“Gohan, there you are.”

Standing before them is the drummer for Apetail, Raditz.  As usual, he’s wearing a shirt a size too small that stretches across his broad chest and is tight on his biceps.  The kid--no, Gohan, that’s his name--hands Piccolo back his sticks.

“Thank you for showing me, Mr. Piccolo.”

“Oh.  Uh.  You’re welcome.”

Gohan hops down from the stool and walks to the edge of the stage.  Raditz picks him up and easily lifts him into his beefy arms.

“What were you doing in here?” he asks. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Mr. Piccolo was teaching me how to drum.”

He quirks a brow and looks from Gohan’s face to Piccolo’s.

“I can teach you how to drum.”

“The way he does it is cooler.”

Gohan says it so simply that he has to laugh.  Raditz’s offended face makes it better.  It’s no secret that he doesn’t like any of the members of Apetail.  They’re loud and rowdy and cause too much damage every night after a show.  More than once, their manager or that big, bald roadie who travels with them has to pay for damage caused by their hedonistic bassist or their temperamental lead singer who stomps around in a perpetual bad mood.

“He does it like a _jazz drummer,”_ Gohan informs him very seriously.

“Oh, I see.” He looks at Piccolo and regards him for a moment. “Thanks for keeping an eye on Gohan.”

He isn’t aware that that was what he’s doing.  Raditz is smiling at him and, for a moment, he can forget it that he once saw this man’s ass when he accidentally stumbled into their hotel room when he and Yamcha were hooking up.  He can even forget seeing him break his drumsticks with his teeth onstage at the end of every show.  He looks like a normal person picking his nephew up from daycare or something.

“No problem.”

Gohan wiggles in Raditz’s arms and looks at Piccolo head on.

“Can you give me more lessons?” he asks.

He should say no.  He should tell him to leave him alone and go bug someone else.  Gohan looks hopeful, though, and determined.  He reminds him a bit of himself when he was younger, going up to his Uncle Kami and demanding that he teach him to drum like he did.

“Sure, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> vertigoats.tumblr.com


End file.
